


A Good Wife

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Awesome Mary Morstan, Divorce, Don't copy to another site, John Watson is Missing, Letters, M/M, POV Mary Morstan, Story: The Final Problem, True Love, Women Being Awesome, Worried Sherlock, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Mary Watson offers to help Holmes find her husband.This is part of a Victorian AU where Reichenbach happened, but Moran won and carried on what Moriarty had begun. At this point, Watson has served two years in prison for gross indecency and Holmes, presumed dead for nearly eight years, has returned to him. Holmes, disguised, has been working at the club Moran frequents. After writing an expose on health care for a small independent paper, Watson is arrested and sent to a workhouse.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	A Good Wife

I wasn’t jealous of Sherlock Holmes until he died. That’s when I knew that I did not own even a small piece of John’s heart.

I entered the marriage with my eyes open, aware that he did not love me. I did not demand to know his reasons, but was fairly honest about my own. I did not love him; nor did I need him to love me. Ironically, a woman who is married to an enlightened husband has more freedom than an unmarried woman. Such a woman has financial security, physical safety, and legal protection.

John provided all of this. He was a good husband, a good father to our Rose. I had what I needed and did not ask for more, having understood from the beginning what I was accepting when I agreed to marry him. I did not envy his intimacy with Mr Holmes. The love affair I’d had when I was young had disappointed me; I did not desire that again, and certainly had no expectation that John would desire regular physical intimacy. He wanted children; I gave him a daughter.

If our marriage was unconventional, people did not notice. Amongst themselves, married women do not pretend that marriage is a bed of roses. Some may genuinely love their husbands, but it is not a necessary condition for happiness. As I had once told John, _a woman hopes for a man who will be kind_. John treated me with respect, and I fulfilled my role, managing the household, caring for our daughter, and keeping him fed and respectably dressed. He is a good man, a handsome man, and I was proud to call him my husband.

Thus we lived as husband and wife. He frequently spent nights at Baker Street, but this did not concern me. During my pregnancy, we began sleeping in separate bedrooms, and this did not change after Rose was born. Though I had never expected to be a mother, I love my daughter more than I ever imagined possible. Still, I did not feel that motherhood was what I was meant for. Children grow up, and then what? A woman must be more than a wife and mother. Once Rose was toddling around, John asked if I wanted more children; I declined. He did not press me.

It was in 1891, the evening of April 24th, when Mr Holmes called. I heard the bell ring, John opening the door, and their voices in the vestibule. I heard them go into John’s study and close the door, their voices muffled now. Rose was asleep. I had been reading in my room, but the tones of their voices communicated something like apprehension, even agitation, and I could no longer focus on my book.

I had been worried for some months, though I could not explain why. John never shared their private conversations with me; even their cases I had to learn about when his stories were published in the Strand. But I always kept my ears open and knew something about what was happening in Parliament, how Moriarty was influencing legislation, having gained respect in certain conservative circles. His ideas, from what I understood, were highly detrimental to the poorer classes, which bothered me greatly. Having been nearly destitute myself, I did not like seeing the poor treated as if they were merely lazy and could raise themselves up if they only wanted to put forth more effort. Men like that treat women and children like chattel.

Thinking that some new development had occurred, I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and came down the stairs to see if I could overhear their conversation. The door was not quite closed; I could hear what they were saying, but remained hidden.

“Is Mrs Watson at home?” I heard Holmes ask.

“She has retired for the evening. Why do you ask?”

“Because I have a proposal for you, and it may inconvenience your wife.”

“What is it? What has happened?”

“May I close your shutters?”

“The shutters? You are afraid of something?”

“Well, I am.”

“Of what?”

“Of air guns.” He gave a mirthless laugh.

“Air guns? For God’s sake, Holmes—“

I heard John’s chair move and the shutters close. “You know me well, Watson. I am not a nervous man. Nor do I turn away from danger. But it is stupidity not to recognise danger when it is close upon you. Might I trouble you for a cigarette?”

There was a pause while, I presumed, cigarettes were lit and inhaled.

“I must apologise for calling on you so late.”

“Tell me what’s happened, Holmes.”

There was another silence. Holmes then began to speak rapidly in a lowered voice; I could pick out only one word: _Moriarty_.

John gave a sharp exclamation. “You’re bleeding! Let me dress that for you.”

"It is not an airy nothing, you see," said he. "On the contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over.”

I heard a desk drawer open. “Here’s my kit. Give me your hand. This will sting a bit.”

Holmes sucked in his breath, and then exhaled slowly. “Moriarty paid a call on me this morning.”

John cursed.

“He told me I must drop it.” He laughed. “Stand clear, or be trodden under foot.”

“Holmes—“

“He promised me that if I was clever enough to bring destruction on him, he would do as much to me. He and his organisation.”

“Judging by your knuckles, he is serious.”

“I have not even told you about the van that nearly ran me over, nor the bricks that almost landed on my head. I spent the day in my brother’s rooms and have only come here to you now that it is dark.”

“He is after you, then. You must spend the night here.”

“No, Watson. I’m afraid you’ll find me a dangerous guest. Scotland Yard is ready to move against him, though, and I’m planning to leave London. Can you get away for a few days? It would be a great pleasure to me if you could come to the Continent with me— that is, if Mrs Watson does not object.”

At this point I decided to reveal my presence. “Object to what?” I said, stepping into the doorway, as if I had chanced to overhear my name while crossing the vestibule. I did not mind what they might think. This was my house.

“My dear lady,” he said, rising to his feet. “I would like to borrow your husband for a few days. I am planning a short holiday and would enjoy his company, if it will not inconvenience you.”

It startled me to see the change in him since Christmas, when we last met. His face was pale and worn, his hands restless. Clearly his nerves were strained to the limit. For a moment I pitied him, living alone with no one to take care of him. In many ways, he needed John more than I did.

But I needed John as well, and what I had overheard told me that they would be in great danger. And I saw the look in my husband’s eyes. Comparing himself to Holmes, he had once told me, _I’m not brilliant._ He was brave, though, and protective, and would follow Holmes whether I agreed or not.

I smiled graciously. “I will not be inconvenienced. Of course he must go with you.”

It was Mycroft Holmes who arranged for John to come home from Switzerland. He could not have managed it himself, I realised as soon as he stepped over the threshold, Mr Quick at his elbow. It was clear that the events at Reichenbach had been a great shock to him. He spoke and moved, but like a hollow man, going through the motions of life without emotion. He retired to his bed that night and did not get up for over a month.

I did what a good wife should do. I took care of him through his illness and grief, determined to give him a reason to live. If he did not love me, I knew at least that he loved Rose and would pull himself together for her.

But it was clear that I could not fill even a small piece of the void in his heart. He went through each day like a dead man, merely going through the motions. Nothing that remained was enough to reanimate him.

In time, he rallied. But soon he became possessed, determined to strike back at the ones responsible for Holmes’ death, as he saw it. He began writing letters to the editor, denying the claims of Moran. Moriarty was dead, but his agenda was not, and John did not see the futility of fighting the battle on the pages of the newspaper.

I know what kind of woman I am. I am not the Angel of the House, the loving presence that generously rules over a peaceful household. I am a practical woman, unsentimental, but not unfeeling. I keep my promises, and I keep myself apart as well. This is how I have survived.

I stayed by him for two years, bearing the rumours and accusations. When it became clear that John was going to bring himself down, and that there was nothing I could do or say to stop that, I announced my intention to leave. I had to keep him from bringing me and Rose down with him. I had to separate myself from him before he ruined us.

I met him at the door one evening when he returned from the surgery. He was late, as he had been recently, having stopped at a pub to drink before coming home. He stumbled a bit, and I realised that he was drunk. I felt pity for him, knowing how his brother had died an alcoholic, and how he had always before been moderate in his habits. How close that addiction lay near the surface of his own character, I had not known until then.

“John.” My travel bag stood by the door; it was clear what my intention was.

His eyes watered. “Don’t. Please.”

I had warned him; he knew. “My solicitor will be in touch.” These words sounded cold; they were not what I really wanted to say. I might have said, _I’m sorry._ I could not form the words.

“Please,” he said. “Let me see Rose.”

“She is at the Whitneys.” I felt myself beginning to falter. “I thought it best.”

He covered his face with his hands then and began to sob. I thought of how I had looked into that face on my wedding day, thinking I would have him all my life, this handsome man, now torn with grief.

“Please,” he wept, sinking to his knees. “My Rosie.”

“She is too young to understand,” I said. “I will explain when she is older.”

To comfort him would be to promise something I could no longer risk. Steeling myself, I picked up my bag and left.

And yet I grieved. That is when I realised that I had done a foolish thing. I had fallen in love with my husband.

Leaving him was not foolish; it was for Rose’s sake that I did that, not my own. Had we not had a child, though, I believe I would have stayed at his side through what came after. I had chosen him— we had chosen one another. I had believed my vows when I said them in church.

This is why I never filed the divorce papers.

I went to Mrs Cecil Forrester at once, taking Rose with me. I had been in her employ for several years before I married, and she had become one of the few people I counted as friends. She knew of a school for girls in Walsall, newly established by a friend of hers, and gave me a letter of introduction. I was hired to teach science, a course not usually taught to girls, but Miss Hayes, the mistress of the school, believed that women should have what men take for granted, starting with an equal education. This agreed perfectly with my own philosophy. Though Rose was only six, too young to be admitted as a regular student, she was able to walk to the village primary school.

There I met a former schoolmate, Emma Hughes, nee Martin, who had been hired to teach French. I remembered her as a sweet and vivacious girl who had married one Edwin Hughes, a man whose family had made a small fortune in some sort of import enterprise. I was surprised to find her employed as a teacher. Her story was a sad one; within two years of their marriage, Edwin had died in a hunting accident. She had no children, and her in-laws had little interest in supporting her.

“When I married, I never thought I’d be widow,” she told me. “Life is very strange.”

“Infinitely stranger than any mind could invent,” I said. “Indeed, I never expected to be married at all.”

Emma corresponded with several other classmates of ours. Some had married well, others had been widowed, or had not married. Considering my last year at my old school, all the girls bragging of their beaus, I was shocked to find myself part of a rather large sorority of women without men. Emma had of course heard of my troubles (who had not?) and expressed genuine sympathy. We occupied adjoining rooms in the school dormitory. As a married woman with a child, I was given a suite of rooms with its own sitting room and small kitchen, and she often shared supper with me and Rose.

“At least you had a tolerable situation,” she told me one night after Rose was in bed. “Once we were married, Edwin paid me little attention. He spent most evenings drinking, rarely making it up to bed. I was not surprised, and a bit relieved, when he accidentally shot himself.” She blushed to say this. “Oh, Mary, you were such a sensible girl. I am sure if any of us could have figured out how to be a woman in this world, it would have been you. While the rest of us were primping and flirting, competing for the attention of men hardly worthy of us, you didn’t buy into that expectation. I understand why you married, but now you’re free! _Comme on faict son lict, on le treuve_. Your husband has made his own bed and now must lie in it.”

By this time I had heard from Mr Quick and knew that if I was thrifty, I might no longer need to work, but I had come to enjoy my students and had no wish to discontinue teaching. I did not tell this to Emma; she would not have understood.

When I was a girl at school, I remember our headmistress telling me that some girls flower early but never bloom fully. They never see their full intellectual potential, but aim at marriage and children and see that as a woman’s flowering. _You are not like that, Mary,_ she told me. _You have a mind like a man’s. You will aim at greater things. That is why you were born a woman._

I did not understand at the time what she meant. Now I realised that my ruined marriage might be an opportunity to do things I had once thought impossible. There were universities that now accepted female students and awarded degrees. I might lead other young women towards the path I had been unable to take.

Emma clearly doted on me, a novel experience for me, a woman who had always found other women tedious. I actually enjoyed our evenings together, our shared thoughts about men and marriage and children. I did not tell her that I had fallen in love with the man I had married, the man I had no illusions about, the man whom I had chosen simply because he was lovely to look at and generous to me. It would make me look foolish to love a man like that, a man who could never return my love.

I met another woman, Violet Hunter, who was hired to teach history and law my second year there. She was not a classmate, but knew my husband and Mr Holmes, having engaged them to help her determine whether a strange job offer was above board. I found her an agreeable companion, very spirited and clever, with a sense of humour that often verged on ribald. I have never met a woman with more beautiful hair; it was a luxuriant chestnut colour, very full and wavy. She had never married, and confessed privately that she did not feel any attraction to men. I had heard of such women, but never met any who admitted it.

“Your husband shot that terrible beast that might have eaten me,” she told me. “I will always be grateful to him and Mr Holmes. The story published in the Strand was quite tame. What really happened was much worse.”

“I had no idea,” I said. “John rarely talked about their cases.”

“It was a long time ago, before your marriage, I assume. Your husband and Mr Holmes— it is a great shame, in my opinion, that the law must insert itself into matters that do not concern the public welfare. The word _decency_ implies a public standard; that should not apply to what consenting adults do in privacy, if it harms no one.” She smiled. “Your husband is very charming. I saw then what they meant to one another.” Appearing to realise how this observation might affect me, she apologised. “I am too blunt, Mary. I’m truly sorry for what you’ve been through. No woman deserves that.”

“I was a fool,” I said.

“Most of us are,” she replied. “Women, that is. Men, on the other hand— _all_ of them are fools.”

I began using my maiden name when I came to the school. Perhaps this was an act of cowardice. Watson is a common name, and no one likely would have made the connection as John suffered through his legal troubles and went to prison. It was for Rose, I told myself. I did not know how much more publicity her father’s story would draw, and wanted to spare her having to defend things she was not old enough to understand.

We sat in my sitting room one evening during the Christmas holiday. Violet had no family to go to and had elected to stay, and Emma had just returned from her sister’s. Rose and I, having no one to visit, as the Forresters were traveling, had also stayed on. Students had been sent home until Hilary term began, and Rosie was in bed. I had poured us each a small glass of sherry and Emma had opened a tin of biscuits Mrs Forrester had sent me.

I was feeling rather low. John had been in prison for a month. Mr Quick had notified me of the death of Mycroft Holmes, who had looked after Rosie and me so well when we left London. It was sad to realise what a short time ago it was that John and I dined together with Sherlock Holmes at Christmas, Rosie toddling around with her new dollies. I remembered being surprised then to discover that I was happy. I had not expected a happy life.

“Have you heard anything from him?” Violet asked me quietly.

I shook my head. “We agreed not to correspond.” This decision was mine, though at times I regretted it. I had thought a clean break was necessary for both John and me, but found it hard to keep my thoughts off of him. “Mr Quick keeps him apprised of our doings. He knows we are in Walsall, and that we are both fine.”

Emma was reading a letter. She and Violet belonged to Round Robins, and received letters several times a week from former classmates and co-workers.

“Oh! Listen, my dears,” she said. “Jane Rafferty says her house has just received another crew of workhouse inmates. Eight of them, she says. What do you suppose that means?”

Violet lowered her voice. “It is as I told you. The good looking ones will leave quickly, having received other appointments. The rest will be given menial work to do or farmed out to factories.” She snorted. “Like slaves.”

Emma folded the letter and stuck it into her pocket. “Isn’t that what they do in the Workhouse? The work is not meant to be pleasant.”

Violet shook her head. “But these have no choice, my dear. Some of them are kept chained, she says, and are punished if they do not work. The workhouse is an unfortunate institution, but it is voluntary. This might be slavery.”

“Has the Poor Law been changed?” I asked. “Are these activities legal?”

“Sometimes the wording of a law allows for interpretation in the administration of that law,” Violet said. “This interpretation has been forced by the owners of factories and farms, who wish to make a greater profit by paying workers less.” She smiled grimly. “My Robins report the same things where they live.”

“Someone should challenge them,” I said.

“If women could vote,” Violet said with feeling, “the world would be a different place.”

Emma shook her head. “Women would simply vote as their husbands instruct them.”

Violet snorted. “And how would you vote, Em?”

“My dear, I would vote for whomever you said I should,” she replied, leaning her head on Violet’s shoulder. “You are the wisest person I know.” She smiled at me. “Mary is wise, too, and a bit fiery. I am quite convinced that the two of you will take the world by storm.”

There are some facts that men, especially those in power, tend to overlook. Half of the population is female, many of them in charge of another large chunk of population: children and servants. Apparently I was not the first woman to notice this. The suffrage movement had been underway for some years, but had not yet succeeded in winning the vote. That did not mean that we were powerless, though. With eyes and ears and hands in every house in England, we had considerable unexploited potential to shape events.

Two years later, I made use of this network.

John had just been released from prison, so my thoughts were never far from him. I wrapped up some items he had left in my care, planning to send them to Mr Quick, who would know where he was staying. I thought it might cheer him to have some of his own things to look at. Aware that he might be destitute, I would also ask Mr Quick if he could convince him to accept some money from me. I knew that his stubbornness and pride made this unlikely, but I had to ask. He refused, of course.

Mr Quick made a trip to Walsall to see me in person some weeks later, which was unusual. He had seen John and delivered my parcel to him. The news he brought was bad. John had been working as a custodian at St Barts, he said, but was let go after the holidays. I expressed myself quite worried about this and asked him to use some of my money to help John, even if he could anonymously send him food and clothing.

“There is more,” he said. “I know how you ladies love sharing news, but you must swear secrecy on what I am about to tell you.”

“Mr Quick, you know I am no gossip. I am quite able to keep a confidence.”

“Your husband’s life will depend on your secrecy,” he replied. “I cannot stress this enough.”

We were alone in my sitting room, Rosie having not yet returned from school. “Whatever has happened?”

“Mr Sherlock Holmes has returned,” he said quietly.

I shook my head, uncomprehending. “How is that possible?”

“He escaped at Reichenbach and went into hiding to protect your husband and his family. Colonel Moran was Moriarty’s lieutenant; he killed Mycroft Holmes. There were political reasons for that, but it was also a warning to Sherlock that he would do the same to Doctor Watson.”

“I thought—“ What I thought was unimportant, though. Thomas Quick was not given to fanciful trains of thought. If he said Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead, it was true.

“It was at Christmas he returned. He has been living in London with the doctor under a false identity. Together, they have been gathering intelligence on Moran’s secret doings and building support for some sort of political rebellion. I’m sorry to say that your husband was recently arrested on a spurious charge and sent to the workhouse in Manchester.”

“It’s slavery,” I said, remembering Violet’s words. “This is what Colonel Moran is doing, imprisoning his enemies.”

“Yes. Mr Joseph Lestrade has been attempting to stay in contact with your husband, but he just this week learned that the doctor’s debt was purchased and the doctor himself sent to a private house.”

“Whose house?”

“We don’t know. Once a debt is purchased, it might change hands several times off the record. I am certain Moran is behind it, but he is not so foolish to let his name be connected with these transactions. Hundreds of these sales are taking place. It is like finding a needle in a haystack..” His head lowered, he twisted the teacup in his hands. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I do, Mr Quick.”

He looked up. “Mrs Watson?”

“I will find him.”

I faced Mr Holmes over a cup of tea, served in mismatched cups in a room on Henry Street, where he was staying. It was a strange parody of our first meeting at his old rooms in Marylebone. He looked awful, I thought, thin and worn to the bone. From what Mr Quick had told me, he had been living as a labourer in France, and had only survived the journey back to England by the grace of God. Some god, at least; I do not know which deity favours men like Sherlock Holmes. I hoped that the same one was watching over John.

“I can do something for you both, I think.”

“Why would you?” he asked. “Why would you do something for me?”

“I’m not a monster,” I said. “No matter what you think, I am not vengeful. For a while I hated you, it is true. But now I have not the energy for hatred. There are worse things in the world than men who love other men.” I smiled at his surprise. “For example, there are men who despise women and children, who enjoy stepping on the poor and the weak. Men who think they deserve what they’ve taken.” I set my cup down, waved away his offer to heat more water. “You’ll laugh when I tell you, I once wanted to be something. Not somebody’s wife, some child’s governess, or some old woman’s companion. Something on my own.”

“What did you want to be?” he asked.

“An astronomer.” I smiled, but felt tears unexpectedly spring into my eyes. “I was five. My mother was dead, and my father still at home, before he was forced to go abroad again. It was night, and we were living in a little town up north. No factories, nothing but farms for miles around. Millions of stars in that sky, as if the entire universe lay open above us. Not like here, all this dirty fog. You never really see the sky at all in London. But out there, it was like the first evening after creation. My father pointed out stars, and showed me how planets don’t twinkle, they just steadily glow. He explained that there were planets so far away that we couldn’t see them, and that some of those planets might be worlds like ours, where people lived. It made me think our little world was not so special then, and I wished I could see those other worlds and meet those people. Nobody had explained to me that women couldn’t be astronomers. When my father went back to India, I was sent to school. And gradually I began to understand that I wouldn’t ever be able to study the stars, that the most I could hope for was to be somebody’s something. Governess, housekeeper, teacher, wife.”

“There is nothing ignoble about those duties,” he said. “Civilization depends on them.”

“They were not what I aspired to be,” I replied. “Do men aspire to be husbands and fathers? No, they plan to become doctors and professors and businessmen and prime ministers. Family is just an accoutrement for a man’s life; for a woman, it absorbs her entire being, leaving her stray moments for feminine pastimes— books and music and handiwork.”

“My mother was a mathematician,” he said. “Brilliant woman. University educated, though not allowed to take a degree. Had she been a man, she would have held a professorship at a major European institution. Instead, she raised two sons, dying before she knew what we would be.”

I sighed. “I never knew my mother. Perhaps she could have prepared me for what the world expected, but she died when I was still a baby. I don’t know what she might have wanted from life. What I might have been— well, there was the treasure, and I wanted it. Not like most people want money. To me it was freedom, a way to do what I wanted, live a life that others couldn’t deny me. I was still naive, but I understood the world better by then, and knew what a woman had to do to be free. John Watson seemed a decent and gentle man; I thought he would be a liberal husband. Marriage confers certain benefits on a woman, you know. No one is so despised as a spinster. Having a kind husband is better than living alone and pitied. I don’t want you to think I took advantage of him. I didn’t care if he didn’t love me, as long as he respected me.”

“He does respect you,” Holmessaid. “In his way, he loved you. He never intended to hurt you. Nor did I.”

“Foolish,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re all fools.”

“I grow more and more convinced of that with every year that passes,” he replied.

“You did me a great favour once,” I said. “ You may not see it, but you did. It’s always better to understand what is possible and what is not, Mr Holmes. I think you and I see eye to eye on that.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“Once I knew the treasure was gone, I was able to stop dreaming and begin live with what was possible. It was realistic to marry John Watson. I hadn’t fully understood your relationship at that time, but I felt he had reasons for marrying. Bachelors may not be as despised as old maids, but they do face a certain scrutiny. Unfair, but we are both realists, are we not?”

“We are.”

“And we will not be crushed by reality.” I smiled at him.

He nodded, and I saw tears in his eyes. “He is gone.”

I leaned forward, laying my hand on his knee. “I know where he is.”

His gasp came out like a sob. “You know— is he—? How?”

“The Royal Mail is quite a marvel of efficiency and dependability,” I said. “Where I live, the post arrives twice daily, and women, as you know, are dedicated correspondents. We love receiving letters, so we write letters. A great deal of information is dispersed every day through the post. And women are quite organised when we want to be, Mr Holmes. When we have to be.”

He nodded. “Of course. Surely you do not doubt that I admire women, Mrs Watson. Few men are as ingenious as a determined female.”

“I heard John had been arrested a few weeks ago and sent to a workhouse. Knowing that he would not stay there long, I put out a query. Just lately I received word that he’s been taken to Hayward House in Yorkshire. As you may know, it is one of several houses owned by friends of Colonel Moran, houses which are being used to traffic in labour. People are being bought and sold, Mr Holmes. Hence my visit today. We must move quickly, but not carelessly.”

As I spoke, I had witnessed his face transform from stunned realisation to hopeful resolution. “And what do you intend to do?” he asked. “I am willing to do anything— whatever is necessary.”

“I can see your eagerness to act, but we are not storming the castle,” I said. “You will remain hidden and must rely on others to carry this out. I promise you, we will get him out of that house.”

“My poor John,” he whispered. “Oh, God— please, what can I do?”

“You cannot do this alone, Mr Holmes.” I smiled. “You need a Watson. That is why I am here.”


End file.
